


in your heart shall burn

by microcomets



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Irish Mythology - Freeform, Lady Knights, M/M, Magic Revealed, Medieval, POV Merlin (Merlin), Slight Sexual Harassment, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-29 00:15:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21401002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/microcomets/pseuds/microcomets
Summary: A decennial hunt draws neighboring princes to Camelot to track a dangerous three-headed beast, but things go south when one of them starts pursuing Merlin instead.
Relationships: Gwen/Morgana (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 114
Kudos: 1932





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another trope that I’m sure everyone is sick to death of (“evil visiting prince stock character incites jealousy and chaos”) but 17-year-old me never got to write it so this is self-care. (I picture this happening around season 2-3 but Morgana never went darkside.)
> 
> also re: the title yes I was playing through Dragon Age Inquisition when I first drafted this what of it
> 
> Thank you to Charlotte, my British spellcheck queen, for beta’ing and Sophie for the read-through.

Merlin has perfected the art of falling asleep standing up.

It hadn’t been easy—it’s a honed skill that requires practice, after all. But after, at this point, a few years attending Arthur in his boring, droning council meetings, debriefings, and whatever other drudgery accompanies princehood, he’s nearly an expert at it.

So when the ceremonial introduction for the Decennial Fiach commences, it finds Merlin lightly dozing on his feet, resolutely ignoring Gwen’s warning pokes to the ribs.

“—a tradition that reveres courage, strength, cunning, skill, and above all, a camaraderie between neighbouring kingdoms that transcends any existing hostilities in favour of alliance and hospitality—” Geoffrey is droning from the front of the hall, and it’s at that moment that Merlin feels a sharp pain shoot up through his foot.

He jerks into consciousness. “Ow!”

“Do not,” Arthur says through bared teeth, leaning forward so he can be clearly heard, “embarrass me.”

“You don’t need me for that,” Merlin says, then resumes his standing nap.

Arthur stomps on his other foot.

“_Ow!”_

“And now, for the commencement of our esteemed guests,” Geoffrey says, and Arthur gives Merlin one last ominous look before he takes his place at the front of the room to welcome the procession of princes, Uther joining at his other side. Morgana, dressed in a resplendent, glittering white-gold dress, occupies the space at Arthur’s other elbow, and looks eagerly toward the hall’s doors.

Gwen pokes him again. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“One day,” Merlin says, in a quiet, wistful voice as Geoffrey begins to read off names, “my hand’s going to slip when I hand him a sword, and then I’m going to take plenty of time to enjoy my unemployment.”

Gwen muffles a snicker, which draws a black look from one of the nearby dignitaries. “Oh, stop. You know, I think that for all Arthur’s terrorising, you’d truly be lost without him.”

Merlin scowls, insulted by this annoyingly correct assumption. “Try that the other way around.”

He and Gwen go quiet then to watch the princes file in one by one when their names are called, all strappy and battle-ragged and—incredibly boring-looking.

“They all look thick,” Merlin mutters, which earns him another of Gwen’s lethal elbows.

The Decennial Fiach, as Arthur had so patronisingly explained to him this morning—despite the fact that Merlin had vocalised, at length, how little he cared—is a questing hunt that occurs every ten years, each time in a different kingdom. The hosting kingdom is selected based on sightings of a hellish, three-headed beast called the Ellén Trechend, which for whatever esoteric reason appears every ten years like clockwork. No matter the current status of political affairs between kingdoms, any rivalries and enmities are suspended to uphold the tradition of the hunt.

Merlin had then pointed out that if war could be done away with so easily, maybe they should just do that all the time, and stop killing people. Arthur had elected to ignore this.

“I couldn’t participate in the Fiach last time—” Arthur had been saying as Merlin prepared his outfit for the welcoming ceremony.

“You were ten,” Merlin felt duty-bound to remind him.

“—but I fully intend to catch the creature before the others, especially given how well I know these woods. To show Camelot’s worth.” His gaze had gone slightly faraway, like it always did when he was picturing some hypothetical, egotistical fantasy of glory. “It shouldn’t be too difficult, after all. My hunting and tracking skills are unparalleled, I’ve been trained to fight since birth—”

“Do you do this when I’m not here too?” Merlin asked, rifling through Arthur’s sword-belts. “Carry on adoringly about yourself, I mean?”

Something sharp that felt suspiciously like a comb had hit the back of Merlin’s head with uncanny accuracy. Merlin had sighed.

He rubs the back of his head now, scowling again when he feels the tender bump at the back of his skull. When he raises his eyes to look accusingly at Arthur, he finds Arthur already staring at him, and when their eyes meet, Arthur starts to glower.

“What?” Merlin mouths.

Arthur just gives the barest shake of his head and looks away moodily.

“I swear, I don’t even have to do anything,” Merlin whisper-complains to Gwen, who ignores him. She’s focused on the newest prince who’s entered the hall.

“Prince Thaddeus Villiers of Gawant,” Geoffrey intones.

Merlin decides immediately he doesn’t like the man. The newest prince swaggers across the hall with insolence, a smirk fixed on his face and his square, blockish chin tilted up as though to look down his nose at everyone in the hall. His eyes, oddly close together for such a square face, are dark, beady, and unmistakably calculating.

As the prince comes closer to Geoffrey and the Pendragons, his dark eyes drift lazily around the room, and for just a moment, they meet Merlin’s. Merlin’s stomach gives an unpleasant little twist, and as though sensing his discomfort, the prince’s lips peel back in a cold, amused smile.

Just as quickly—too quickly to be noticed, perhaps—he sweeps past them to be received by Arthur and Uther, and Merlin releases the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, unnerved.

“What was _that_ about?” Gwen whispers.

So, more noticeable than he’d thought. Merlin shakes his head with no answer.

Gwen eyes the new prince distrustfully as he joins the ranks of the rest of the royals. “I don’t like him.”

“You can say that again,” Merlin mutters, tracking Arthur’s reaction closely. Arthur is also observing Prince Thaddeus, with similar suspicion.

“Lastly, Prince Elys Bourchier of Nemeth,” Geoffrey says, and Merlin notes that Uther and Arthur both frown, as though the name doesn’t ring a bell.

Unlike the other princes, the figure that enters the hall wears a helmet to cover their face, and in a full suit of chainmail rather than ceremonial dress; they’re more slender than the other men, quite a bit shorter, but their gait is measured and confident as they cross the hall.

The prince stops in front of Geoffrey, and the hall is silent, having noticed the differences between this entry and the others. At last, the person removes their helmet, and audible gasps and murmurs ripple through the room; while the dark hair is closely cropped to the skull, the cheekbones stark, the prince is undoubtedly a woman.

“What is the meaning of this?” Uther snaps, taking a step forward.

The woman’s voice, deep and steady, rings out so she can be heard by everyone. “As you know, my brother Isik was killed in Earrach of last year. I am the only remaining heir to Nemeth’s throne. It of course stands to reason that our kingdom not be excluded from such a noble tradition on account of my sex.”

Morgana is doing a terrible job of concealing her wide, elated smile, and Gwen is clenching Merlin’s elbow in a death grip, like she’s watching history be made.

“Women cannot compete,” Uther says, both exasperated and withering. “It has never been done. I’m sure there’s something in the rules that—”

“Actually,” Geoffrey says meekly, then clears his throat and deepens his voice so he can be heard by the rest of the hall. “In my past reviews of the rules, I’ve found there to be nothing that explicitly prohibits entry based on sex.”

The woman holds her shoulders back and her head high when she speaks again, her voice ironclad. “I am Princess Elysia. Would you dare disrespect Nemeth by encouraging our exclusion from a tradition that, to this day, has included all kingdoms?”

A pin could drop in the silence following these booming words; everyone in the hall holds their breath, including Merlin and Gwen.

Conflict visibly rages across Uther’s face—to potentially insult their alliances in Nemeth is no light transgression, Merlin knows. But Uther is nothing if not traditionalistic, to put it lightly.

After what feels like an eternity, Uther speaks, as though the words are being extracted from him.

“Very well,” he says, and the words sound more like a threat than a concession. “As you wish. You may compete, despite the fact that doing so undoes decades of tradition. Know this, though. You will not be granted any special treatment based on the fact that you’re a woman, and if something befalls you, you can hold none accountable except yourself.”

Elysia gives a slight dip of her head. “I would revoke my participation if the conditions were any different.”

Morgana breaks into enthusiastic applause, and after some sceptical grumbling, the rest of the attendees follow suit. Merlin and Gwen swap triumphant grins. Any instance that knocks Uther’s draconic views down a peg is one of immense satisfaction to Merlin, and while she’d never admit it, he knows Gwen feels the same, deep down.

The ceremony, which had been boring before, becomes excruciatingly dull following this moment of excitement, and Merlin finds himself almost relieved to be back in Arthur’s chambers after it, despite the fact that it means more tedious preparation chores for the welcoming feast tonight.

“I imagine you have much to say on Princess Elysia’s participation in the hunt,” Merlin says while dusting off an old pair of Arthur’s ceremonial trousers.

He’s fully expecting Arthur to throw a fit about the whole ordeal, so he’s shocked when Arthur replies, in a cool voice, “I don’t see any reason why she shouldn’t. Morgana is a fantastic hunter, although of course I’ll deny having ever said that.”

“Wow,” Merlin says after a stunned moment of silence. “That’s…”

Arthur glares at him across the room. “What?”

“Nothing! That’s, just, er…progressive. Of you.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and folds his arms across his chest. “I’m not a complete brute, you know.”

“Not completely, no,” Merlin says agreeably, and Arthur throws a pillow at him.

There are a few moments without speaking while Merlin runs around grabbing various things, and then Arthur says, nonchalantly, “What did you think of Prince Thaddeus?”

Merlin knows immediately who he means, and had considered bringing it up himself but thought better of it. “I don’t know how to describe it, but you know how certain people feel—bad?”

He’s expecting a snide or mocking reply, but Arthur just nods like he knows what Merlin means.

“He felt like that.” Obviously, he can’t just outright explain the hypersensitivity that magic grants him toward people’s energy, but Thaddeus’ had felt foul. Rotten. Merlin closes his eyes, reliving the strange, predatory way the prince had looked at him. “I don’t know. I don’t trust him. There’s something…off about him.”

“Just this once, Merlin, I completely agree,” Arthur says.

“We’ll just have to keep an eye on him,” Merlin says, “won’t we?”

“I don’t trust you’ll be much help, granted the power of observation isn’t your strong suit,” Arthur says, “but yes, we will.”

—

That night, at the opening feast, it’s mostly madness for the servants—Merlin and Gwen keep swapping helpless, exasperated looks with each other as they race around back and forth serving the princes and the other nobles, and it takes a considerable amount of time before the frenzy calms down enough for Merlin to resume his usual position by Arthur’s side, pitcher in hand, his feet and knees aching.

Coincidentally enough—or perhaps not—Prince Thaddeus is seated at Arthur’s left side, picking his way disdainfully around his plate and leaving most of his food untouched. Eventually, as though he’s been waiting to do it for a while, Thaddeus leans over to Arthur and extends a hand with a cold, wormy smile.

“Prince Arthur, is it? Prince Thaddeus of Gawant.”

“An honor, I’m sure,” Arthur replies, taking the hand and shaking it.

“I’ve heard much about you,” Thaddeus says. “Your feats in battle, and your natural prowess. Your reputation precedes you.”

Merlin thinks he’s laying it on a little thick, but Arthur, never one to turn down glowing praise, smiles and says, “Surely you flatter me, but thank you nonetheless.”

Thaddeus’ gaze finds Merlin, and he gives a small, insolent tilt of his head. “And who is this that’s so diligently serving us tonight?”

“Oh,” Arthur says, casting an irritated and dismissive glance at Merlin. “That’s Merlin, my manservant. It’s likely that’s the first time someone’s called him diligent.”

Merlin scowls at the back of Arthur’s idiotic blond head, and thinks about dumping the pitcher over it.

“Surely not,” Thaddeus says, with wide-eyed, exaggerated surprise. “You’re too hard on him, I’m sure.”

Arthur picks out a piece of gristle between his teeth with his pinky nail and doesn’t say anything.

“How goes your evening, Merlin?” Thaddeus asks, and the tone is warm but in some weirdly insidious way that makes Merlin’s skin prickle uncomfortably. He thinks it may be because Thaddeus’ expression is inviting, but his eyes are cold and empty, like a fish’s.

“Been better, I suppose,” Merlin says, shifting from foot to foot to get the blood flowing back to them. “But I can’t complain.”

Thaddeus’ eyes sweep Merlin up and down, lingering a little too long to be anything but suggestive. Merlin feels something in his throat tighten with discomfort.

“Mm. I assume Camelot’s servants are not merely for utilitarian purposes,” Thaddeus says, popping a grape in his mouth and chewing with exaggerated slowness.

Merlin chances a glance at Arthur. He had also apparently noticed the look and the innuendo, because a muscle is ticking in his jaw and his knuckles are tight on his goblet.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he says, his tone far colder than just moments before.

“Well, as I’m sure you know,” Thaddeus says, leaning back in his chair. Merlin tops off Arthur’s glass, just to have somewhere to focus his eyes, ignoring the uncomfortable heat creeping up his collar. “The servants in Gawant are more than happy to partake in recreational duties. If you understand my meaning.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything, and he’s gone still enough in his seat for Merlin to know he’s livid.

“In Camelot,” Arthur says, much more civilly than Merlin knows he feels, “we view servants as subjects under our protection. None of the court would take advantage of that contract unless they wished to see severe consequences.”

“So staunch and traditionalistic Camelot is!” Thaddeus says with a light, airy laugh. “Uther’s effect, to be sure.”

Merlin notices Arthur’s knuckles go slightly white on his goblet.

“But surely you’re not opposed to sharing this one?” Thaddeus says, and the implication is so outlandish that it takes a few blank, wordless moments for both Merlin and Arthur to catch on.

“You can’t mean—” Arthur begins, immediately sitting bolt upright in his seat.

“I certainly do,” Thaddeus says, and there’s nothing concealed in the lewdness of his tone and his gaze now. Merlin fights the strange urge he has to flee on the spot, his duties be damned. “A servant with a face like that, it’s no wonder you keep him as a royal pet.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says through clenched teeth, “certainly lacks life’s finer qualities, but he is not a pet. He doesn’t belong to anyone.”

“Oh, apologies, of course,” Thaddeus says, with exaggerated obsequiousness. “An easy enough mistake to make. After all, I’ve seen how…close you keep him.”

Merlin breathes out slowly through his teeth, avoiding Thaddeus’ gaze. He doesn’t dare look at Arthur, not for a second.

“Merlin, is it,” Thaddeus says, drawing out the syllables into a long drawl. “Funny name. Kind of a funny face. But beautiful, there’s no doubt.”

“Prince Thaddeus,” Arthur says, and Merlin can’t be the only one to notice Arthur’s ears are now a glaring shade of red. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to accomplish other than further insulting both me and my servant. I’ve already informed you of Camelot’s court etiquette, and it does not involve any inappropriate commingling with our servants. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

“Of course,” Thaddeus says, baring a smile that seems far more a sneer. “But surely, you see, a man of noble standing can’t be blamed if he’s to—”

Arthur’s voice drops a notch lower so that he can’t be overheard, but it carries the same gravity as if he’d shouted above everyone in the room. “And if I find that you’ve participated in any untoward behavior—with anyone in Camelot’s court, their rank or employment notwithstanding—you’ll find yourself equally familiar with our standards of punishment.”

Merlin’s watching Thaddeus closely under his brow, so he sees the moment the vindictive glee slips from his expression; he watches the transformation, his lip curling ever so slightly higher into his nostril and his black eyes burning like coals with sudden and genuine hate. Not used to being put in his place, it would seem, Merlin thinks, feeling strangely giddy to have Arthur’s verbal protection.

Granted, there wasn’t anything Thaddeus could do to Merlin that couldn’t be answered with a simple flex of his magic, but the fact that Arthur, who had used a peasant boy as a moving target upon their first meeting, is sticking up for the servants—well, it’s nice to witness, that’s all.

“Of course, Prince Arthur,” Thaddeus says, with a small, mocking dip of his head. “I would expect nothing less. I am your humble guest, after all.”

Arthur takes a long pull of his wine, not deigning to answer that. He meets Merlin’s eyes briefly over the rim of the goblet, then he looks away.

Evidently Thaddeus isn’t done, though—he leans in and says, low enough that only Arthur and Merlin could hear, “Between you and I, though, it’s our little secret if you’re enjoying your servant’s services on a more private basis. That mouth alone—”

A few interesting, startling things happen at once: There’s the loud scrape of Arthur’s chair being pushed back, the sudden, truncated hush of the burbling chatter around them, Thaddeus’ sharp lips curled up in a disdainful, delighted smile, and something Merlin can’t totally comprehend until he blinks—Arthur’s left arm cuff removed, and tossed on the floor directly between him and Thaddeus.


	2. Chapter 2

Merlin fumes all the way back to Arthur’s chamber. Arthur is wholly unmoved by this display, following placidly in Merlin’s footsteps as Merlin storms down the hallway, opens the door, shoves Arthur in by a shoulder, and slams it behind him.

“Ow,” Arthur says, pointed with a touch of amusement, and it somehow makes Merlin more outraged to see Arthur in a weirdly good mood about this.

“What the _ hell _were you thinking?” Merlin says through clenched teeth. “You need to go to Thaddeus and withdraw. Tonight.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of reciting spiels I don’t listen to?” Arthur says, raising an eyebrow and turning toward his wardrobe. “Tell me, can you do it in your sleep at this point?”

“I’m serious,” Merlin snaps. “This is absolute madness. I mean, you usually do mad things, don’t you, and then I’m the one on your heels like some suicidally loyal hunting dog—_do this, Merlin, oh, don’t mind me if I die, Merlin—” _

“Merlin,” Arthur says, pleasantly, and pokes his head out around the corner of his bed. “Do shut up.”

“You can’t do this,” Merlin says, planting his feet and crossing his arms. “I won’t allow it.”

“Last I checked,” Arthur says, struggling to slough off his chainmail, “I’m the future king, and thus by law, I can do whatever I want. Help me with this armour, will you?”

“No!” Merlin retorts. Arthur gives him a long-suffering look, which remains stubbornly unbroken until Merlin caves and stomps over, dissembling the armour with expert speed and no shortage of anger.

“To risk your life for such a—” Merlin says. “And by the way, I’m not some—some blushing chambermaid whose virtue needs defending, you know.”

“I don’t care about your virtue,” Arthur tells him. “To insinuate that the nobility here would take such open advantage of the servants, and not risk punishment for it—it’s galling, and I warned him more than once that such talk wouldn’t be tolerated. Thaddeus needs to be taught a lesson, to his own kingdom if not ours.”

Merlin keeps going on the armour. “You realise he’s just doing this to get a rise out of you, right? He got _ exactly _ what he wanted out of that exchange. You do realise he probably wants you dead? This is the perfect way to do it. If you weren’t always trying to be so _ bloody noble— _”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and his voice sounds a note off from before. “I think I can take the rest from here.”

Merlin, who’d gotten swept up in the tide of an impressively mounting rant, hadn’t realised that he’s moved far beyond stripping armour and chainmail and jacket and his fingers had thoughtlessly slipped into the waistband of Arthur’s trousers.

Arthur’s staring at him with a bemused expression. 

Merlin yanks his hands back, feeling heat prickle under his neckerchief.

“If you can manage it,” he recovers with.

Arthur leaves on his trousers but heads to his wardrobe to fetch a night-shirt, and it’s the first moment of silence between them since they entered the room. It feels strangely loaded, some of Merlin’s anger deflating in the emptiness of words.

“Arthur,” Merlin says quietly, after a few more protracted moments. “I can’t let you do this. At least let me take your place.”

“What have we said about you trying to be funny, Merlin?”

“I’m not joking.”

“Besides, it’s not a fight to the death,” Arthur says reasonably, peeling his shirt off. Merlin tears his eyes away, his face still stupidly hot from before. “It’s just single combat. I’ve done it dozens of times before, and against far finer warriors, at that.”

“When has someone ever _ not _tried to kill you in single combat?”

“True,” Arthur concedes. “But Thaddeus has nothing on me. His fighting skills have always been inferior, and he has an abysmal character, at that. I’ll make an example of him to both our kingdoms.”

“It doesn’t feel right,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “Remember my, er, funny feelings?”

“Yeah, the ones that I ignore?”

“Yeah, the ones that always, unfailingly turn out to be right?”

Arthur scowls. “‘Unfailingly’ is generous.”

“Please, Arthur. You know this is stupid and it’s not worth it,” Merlin says. “It was just a couple of lewd comments over a few drinks. It’s poor form, but it’s not worth you getting hurt.”

“He insulted my servant,” Arthur says, starting to tick off on his fingers. “He insulted me. He insulted my father. And he insulted Camelot. Men have gone to war over less.”

“Men are historically stupid,” Merlin replies. “As are you.”

Arthur beams winningly at him in a way that’s supposed to be obnoxious but still makes something warm and helpless flutter in Merlin’s stomach. Arthur’s still in that annoyingly bright mood, as he always seems to be on the brink of his dumb and life-threatening choices, and Merlin can’t help but soften around it, despite his lingering anger.

“Well, even though I do think the whole thing is stupid and reckless,” Merlin says, scuffing Arthur’s floor with the toe of his boot. “I guess I owe you a thank you. For, you know, sticking up for me. You didn’t have to.”

When Merlin looks up again, Arthur is frowning. “You don’t owe me anything, Merlin. I was hardly going to stand by and let him talk about you like that.”

“Really?” Merlin says.

“Or anyone in Camelot, for that matter.”

“Oh,” Merlin says.

Arthur seems to soften a bit, clearly misreading Merlin’s reaction for fear, and he takes a few steps forward to offer Merlin a half-smile and a pat on the shoulder.

“Don’t lose sleep over this,” Arthur says. “Trust me, I’m going to be fine.”

“I’m not going to lose sleep over you,” Merlin shoots back, still residually churlish about the whole ordeal.

“It’s a good job you don’t,” Arthur says. “If your regular disposition is based on a full night’s sleep, then I shudder to think.”

“Don’t worry, sire,” Merlin says. “I’m going to sleep like a baby tonight.”

It’s at that moment that Uther bursts into the room with a sweep of cape, his expression thunderous. He points to Merlin. “You. Out. I need a word with my son.”

Merlin scrambles to dodge Uther’s rage, and upon closing the door, hears Uther’s voice demand, “What the _hell were you thinking—_”

Yes, Merlin thinks wearily as he heads back to Gaius’ chambers, he’s going to sleep like a baby tonight.

—

Merlin does not, in fact, sleep like a baby. He’s woken at some point around three in the morning, after tossing and turning over Arthur for a few hours and blackly cursing idiot, charming, blond princes. After he does manage to fall asleep, he’s jolted awake by Gaius, and he feels cold dread harden in his stomach when the page at the door informs him he’s been sent for by Prince Thaddeus.

“I don’t want to go,” Merlin whispers to Gaius as the page waits for him. “You should’ve heard Thaddeus earlier, Gaius. He’s an utterly horrible person. I have no idea on what he’s planning to do to me or Arthur.”

“I fear you don’t have a choice,” Gaius says, his gaze pitying. “If you refuse, Thaddeus will surely inform Uther that his honor has been insulted by one of Camelot’s servants, and I dare not think what consequences there’ll be then.”

Merlin closes his eyes and nods. He’d take smarmy Thaddeus over a one-on-one with Uther any day.

“Try not to use your magic,” Gaius says, dropping his voice so low that his lips barely move. “But if it comes to your life or his, do not hesitate.”

Merlin nods again. His stance on killing Thaddeus if it came to it had never, for a second, been in doubt.

Merlin accompanies the page, still clad in his night-clothes, to one of the guest chambers, which Merlin himself and one of the other servants had painstakingly cleaned before the visiting princes arrived. The page drops Merlin at the door and immediately leaves, which makes the anxiety churning through him much more pronounced.

He grimaces, then raps on the door with two knuckles.

“Enter,” says Thaddeus from within.

Merlin hesitates, then pushes open the door. The fire is crackling low, almost down to the embers, but a few torches on the walls have been lit. Thaddeus is sprawled out in the armchair nearest to the fire, his bare calf hooked over the armrest and his shirt open in a V to reveal a pale, hairy chest. He smirks when Merlin comes into view, and Merlin feels a pulse of loathing shoot through him.

Merlin has a lot of things he wants to say, but he settles for a clipped, “You called for me, sire?”

“Yes, yes,” Thaddeus says, getting at once to his feet in a startling, animated burst of movement. He claps his hands together. “Sorry to disturb your rest, of course.”

“Not a problem at all,” Merlin says, making sure his tone signals that it is, in fact, a problem.

“I just wanted to—I don’t know, get your thoughts on a few things,” Thaddeus says, sauntering a bit closer. “You caught my attention at the feast earlier—well, you and Arthur both, really. Such an interesting dynamic, the two of you. Intimate, for a prince and servant. Compelling to watch.” He makes a derisive, waving hand gesture. “Almost like watching a show.”

Merlin couldn’t even begin to explain the nuances of his relationship with Arthur to this cretin, and he would never want to. It feels profane and dirty to even hear Thaddeus speak of it. He keeps his mouth shut, clenching his fingers where they’re clasped behind his back.

“Tell me, Merlin,” Thaddeus says, again with that specific pronunciation—the first syllable strung out, a derisive purr. “What do you think of your noble prince fighting me tomorrow?”

“To be honest,” Merlin says, “I really don’t see the need for any kind of fight.”

“A wise boy,” Thaddeus says with a curved smile, and Merlin pleasantly thinks, _I could split your skull in two with a single blink. _“So we’re in agreement that Arthur’s temper is, ah, not one of his finer virtues.”

Merlin picks his words carefully, the prospect of a punishment from Uther still looming in the back of his mind if he insults Thaddeus.

“I don’t think the gauntlet was unwarranted. I believe my master has an admirable sense of judgment,” Merlin says, believing no such thing.

Thaddeus arches a sceptical eyebrow.

“I just have a strong dislike for needless violence and bloodshed,” Merlin finishes, then respectfully keeps his eyes fixed on Thaddeus’ shins.

“Hmm,” Thaddeus says. “Well-spoken, too. I can see why he likes you.”

Merlin remains expressionless, feigning ignorance to Thaddeus’ insinuations.

“Mmm, so not a royal pet, then?” Thaddeus says. “I have to say I was genuinely surprised. Why else would Arthur keep you on such a short leash?”

“I’m his manservant,” Merlin says tightly. “I provide for all the prince’s needs.”

“I’m sure you do,” Thaddeus says, leering in a way that makes a few white spots appear in Merlin’s line of sight. His magic hums in response to his anger—surely Thaddeus can feel that electricity, Merlin thinks, but he remains oblivious as he carries on.

“But there’s something else, isn’t there? I’ve seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one else is watching.” Thaddeus’ eyes are serpent-like in the low light; he swirls wine in the goblet of his hand. “I daresay our golden boy prince would lay down his life for you. Isn’t that funny? It’s the last thing I expected.”

Something metallic that tastes like panic begins to worm its way up Merlin’s throat. “You’re wrong. I’m just his servant, nothing more.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Merlin,” Thaddeus says, simpering. “It makes me wonder what other secrets I can wrest out of you.”

At this point, there’s a loud commotion at the door—a hushed protest from the footman, and then Arthur, bursting in with a loud bang of the doors. He’s at least had the wherewithal to shove on boots, but otherwise he’s disheveled in his sleep-clothes, a white shift and loose trousers. His blond hair is wild and sticking up, spots of colour in his cheeks. He looks distinctly unprincely. 

Arthur’s eyes cut to Merlin at once. “Are you alright?”

Merlin nods wordlessly, aware that any motion might convey something to Thaddeus that could disadvantage them.

Arthur crosses to Merlin before he looks to Thaddeus, and his gaze hardens, sharp as a glass shard. Merlin doubts Thaddeus can see the extent of Arthur’s anger, given that, for all his faults, Arthur is a prince born, and his composure is steely and well-practiced. But with his physical proximity, Merlin can feel him vibrating with rage. 

Arthur’s voice is tight and controlled when he speaks. “I’ve tolerated your slights until now, but you go too far, Thaddeus. If it weren’t for the hunt, I would cast you out of Camelot right now.”

Thaddeus throws his head back and gives a single laugh. “Over a servant? My, my, how noble your ideals, Your Majesty. What would the mighty Uther say?” He leans forward in his seat, expression mocking. “Then again, we both know Merlin is something special, don’t we?”

Arthur’s whole frame is rigid, his expression unreadable beyond a mask of fury. “You’re mistaken if you think I wouldn’t protect any citizen of Camelot, no matter who they are.”

“Oh, please, spare me, Arthur,” Thaddeus says with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “You would do the same for any peasant in the street, I’m sure.”

The bolt of Arthur’s jaw tightens, then locks. “What is the point of this? What do you want?”

“Can’t a man just have a conversation with another beautiful man?” Thaddeus asks, his half-lidded lizard eyes flitting lazily to Merlin. “There’s hardly any indecency in that.”

“That’s enough,” Arthur snaps. “We’re finished here. I’ll see you at the fight tomorrow.”

Thaddeus leans forward again, eyes glittering. “You have no idea how much I look forward to it.”

—

Arthur is furious on the way back to his chambers, Merlin can tell that much by his gait—his broad shoulders are a rigid line, his breathing staggered.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, catching up to his side. “It’s exactly like I said. Can’t you see he’s just trying to get a rise out of you?”

“To call himself a man of honour,” Arthur fumes. “He knew you were a servant, that you couldn’t refuse his summons. It was a low and dirty trick.”

“I don’t care,” Merlin says. “I mean, I’m fine—he didn’t do anything.”

Arthur swings to a stop, turning to look at Merlin with intense severity. “Did he proposition you?”

“_What _?” Merlin splutters. “No! He just—he just wanted to talk. Not quite sure about what, but I really just think he wanted a reaction out of you, Arthur.”

Arthur utters a low oath under his breath and continues stalking down the hallway.

“I know you’re worried about my life,” Arthur says over his shoulder, “but I’d be far more worried for his.”

Merlin is somewhat in awe of Arthur’s rage, as terrifying and shimmering and resolute as it is. “Do the servants being mistreated really get to you this much?”

Arthur just twitches one shoulder, turning a corner down the last hallway.

“Because if so, I have a few pieces of legislation that I’ve been mulling over. You know, labour equality, more protections and wage improvements for the castle staff. I mean, if you wanted to pass them along to Uther at any point, I don’t mind if you—”

“Not now, Merlin,” Arthur says, sounding weary as he pulls to a halt at his chamber door.

“Er, right, of course,” Merlin says. “I’m just saying.”

Arthur surveys him, his eyes drooping heavy in his exhaustion.

“Are you alright?” he repeats, quiet.

“I’m fine,” Merlin says, his own voice also softer now. “He didn’t touch me.”

“He didn’t have to.”

“You should sleep,” Merlin says worriedly, and he just barely stops himself from reaching out to touch him. “You’ll be exhausted for tomorrow, and I’m sure that’s part of his ploy.”

“I know.” Arthur shuts his eyes and sighs. 

“How did you know, by the way? That he’d called for me?”

“One of my regular guards saw you walking with the page. He thought it was suspicious when he realised the page wasn’t one of ours, and that you weren’t coming to my chambers.”

“Ah,” Merlin says, and he knows he would have been fine, maybe even without his magic, but he suddenly doesn’t have words to express his relief of Arthur coming for him.

“Well,” Merlin says, after another moment passes. “I should probably get to sleep. So much for a full night’s rest.”

“You should stay here,” Arthur says, turning the latch on the door.

“Here?” Merlin echoes, dumbly. “As in, here—here?”

“Yes, you blithering idiot,” Arthur says, with a touch of familiar irritation. “That way if Thaddeus sends for you again he can’t find you.”

“I can’t stay _ here_,” Merlin says, somewhat scandalised and also somewhat surprised that Arthur isn’t. “It’ll just confirm what Thaddeus has been saying.”

Arthur frowns and narrows his eyes. “What has he been saying?”

“Oh, y’know—” Merlin says, only he doesn’t know, and suddenly the conversation feels a lot more loaded, as he mentally revisits Thaddeus’ suggestive questions. “He just—said some things while I was in his room. Stuff to get a rise out of me, you know, making more innuendos and all of that.”

Arthur stares at him for a long moment after that, not saying anything, the blue of his eyes dark in the lone torchlight from the hallway. Merlin feels a nervous energy spindle through him, electric in his fingers. 

“Right,” Arthur eventually says, just as Merlin says, “So.”

Arthur swallows—Merlin watches the bob of his throat, the column striped with shadows cast from the firelight—then he tips his chin up. “It’s safer that you stay here. As intolerable as the idea may be.”

“Yeah,” Merlin says without conviction. “Intoler—yeah.”

Arthur huffs out a sigh, rolls his eyes, then nudges the door open with his shoulder. He turns to Merlin and makes a small, snide gesture of invitation, like a footman would, as if Merlin doesn’t barge into his room twenty times a day.

Merlin’s too tired to put up a fight, although the idea of sleeping on Arthur’s floor is especially unappealing after tonight’s events. He heads to the chest of drawers to grab a few spare blankets, dragging them over by the fireplace.

It takes him a moment to realise Arthur is watching him, somewhat awkwardly.

“You know my bed can fit at least three,” Arthur says, quickly as if he hadn’t meant to say it, and then he scowls. “Even if the idea of sharing a bed with you is repugnant.”

Merlin stares. “I…can sleep on the floor then? I don’t mind.”

“I mean—” Arthur rubs the nape of his neck in a fast, agitated movement. “Fine. Do as you please.”

Merlin’s far too exhausted to decrypt Arthur’s weird behaviour, and any investigation into it will likely leave him insulted somehow.

Arthur loiters another moment more, as if he’s waiting for something, so Merlin says, very courteously, “Thank you for letting me stay.” And, because he’s morbidly curious about how far he can push the strange mood between them: “I’m touched, really. Didn’t know you cared.”

“I’d do the same for any manservant,” Arthur says, glaring. “Any servant—anyone, I mean.”

Merlin nods once. “Right.”

Arthur stomps around loudly for a while, pacing like a caged bear long after Merlin’s settled in to sleep, and after several minutes of this, Merlin casts his head up sleepily and says, gentle but chiding, “Arthur. Go to sleep.”

“I can’t,” Arthur snaps, and the tone is abrasive but not enough to conceal the nerves underneath. Then, more stilted, slightly confessional, “This is always how it is nights before a fight.”

Merlin had been familiar with Arthur’s pre-battle jitters, but didn’t know their extent. “I had no idea. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t _apologise,_” Arthur says, sounding insulted and angry again. “I don’t need your _sympathy, _I’m not _nervous—_”

“Would you just—” Merlin sighs. “Look, would it help if you had someone next to you? When you sleep, I mean?”

Arthur reels a bit at that, stopping in his tracks to stare at Merlin in disbelief through the dark. “_What?_”

“You suggested it first!” Merlin says. “I’m just trying to help.”

“How would _that _help?”

“I dunno! It helped me when I was little, to have my mum lay with me when—” _When I was paralysed by night terrors about my magic spinning out of control. _“—when I was too worked up to sleep.”

“I am not,” Arthur says, on the verge of a full tantrum, clipping each syllable with his teeth, “_little._”

Merlin sits up, the blanket pooling around his hips. “The battle is in four hours. You need to sleep before then.”

“I bloody know!” Arthur yells, then his shoulders slump in exhaustion, and he pinches the bridge between his eyebrows.

Merlin stands up and crosses the room, then starts gently pushing Arthur toward the bed, even as Arthur mumbles and protests and swats at him once or twice.

“You’ll thank me in the morning,” Merlin says, pushing Arthur firmly by a shoulder down into the mattress.

Arthur glares at him, the dark shadows under his eyes visible even in the dim moonlight.

Merlin turns a shoulder back toward the fireplace, and Arthur says, haltingly, “So—are you not going to—? Not that it matters—but—”

Arthur has always been truly abysmal at asking for what he needs, deflecting and parrying and sometimes outright aggressing. Merlin’s become very well-versed in the language, as obtuse as it is. And Arthur had come for him when Merlin needed him tonight, even when Merlin hadn’t really thought he needed him.

So he moves to the other side of the bed and settles cautiously down besides Arthur, waiting to see if he’ll be rebuffed.

Instead, Arthur sighs, like a great weight has gone from him. For a moment, Merlin feels a sharp, startling pang, right in the center of his chest. Arthur had never had a mum for nights like this, before battles when he was a teenager or even younger. He certainly didn’t have Uther. He’d had familiar servants at best, strangers at worst—if he’d asked for anyone at all.

Merlin hadn’t grown up with much, but at least he’d always had Hunith and the unconditional certainty of her love for him.

That, and his magic. Merlin’s throat tightens uncomfortably, and he curls his fingers into his palms. Arthur would never allow this closeness, this intimacy if he knew a sorcerer was sharing his bed.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, very clear and sudden in the quiet of the room, and Merlin turns his head to respond, but sees that Arthur’s already asleep, his eyelids fluttering restlessly.

Merlin must also doze off, because the next thing he knows, he’s blinking awake and the room is still a murky dark, but bluer and lighter than before—dawn. He turns to Arthur and gently shakes a shoulder.

“Arthur.”

Arthur flinches, then his eyes drift open. For a moment, he stares at Merlin, and Merlin’s not sure what he’s expecting—maybe surprise, or disgust, or irritation, or his usual morning grumpiness, but he’s certainly not expecting a soft, sleepy smile, a barely visible curve of Arthur’s mouth.

Then Arthur freezes, and he seems to fully wake up—he recoils, snapping upright. “What—”

“It’s just before dawn,” Merlin says, slowly as not to disorient him further. “The fight?”

Arthur scrambles out of bed, staring at Merlin with that same fearful expression, and for a moment they stare at each other in silence before Arthur raises one finger and says, “Not a word of this to anyone.”

“Oh, who am I going to tell?” Merlin says, rolling his eyes. “Gaius?”

Arthur keeps the finger raised, still staring at Merlin.

“You’re welcome, I suppose,” Merlin says pointedly, then rolls out of bed. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Fine,” Arthur says, brusque, straightening up and dropping the finger. “I could’ve slept without you.”

Merlin frowns. “Okay.”

Arthur blusters around the room, still seeming uncomfortable in his skin as Merlin prepares the chainmail and armour.

“Are you nervous?” Merlin says, picking his words with care.

“No,” Arthur says, stopping to stare out the window as the room slowly grows lighter. “I could beat Thaddeus with no sleep and my hands tied behind my back. It’s mostly…” He hesitates.

“What?” Merlin prompts, gentle.

“My father expects much of my performance,” Arthur says, shifting from foot to foot awkwardly, as if saying it is making him physically ill at ease. “It’s never enough.”

“You’re the best warrior in the kingdom,” Merlin says. “Surely your father sees that.”

“You would think,” Arthur mutters.

Merlin approaches the subject in that same cautious tone of voice as he starts to dress Arthur, sensing Arthur’s close to losing his temper. “The king was angry with you last night?”

“I only had to explain what Thaddeus had said,” Arthur says. “He thinks my reaction was justified, especially because Thaddeus is a guest of Camelot.”

Merlin can barely contain his surprise, which Arthur notices. “Not over the servants,” he adds. “Over the insults to him and the kingdom.”

_ Of course, _Merlin thinks.

“I know you’ll spare Thaddeus’ life if you win, but he won’t,” Merlin says quietly as he adjusts an arm cuff. “You know that.”

“He won’t win,” Arthur says, as matter-of-factly as a description of the weather. “But I do know that, and I knew it when I threw down the gauntlet.”

Merlin shakes his head, frustrated all over again. “To gamble your life on—what, petty insults? It’s ridiculous. Nothing is worth losing you, Arthur.”

Arthur heaves a martyred sigh. “We’ve been over this. You don’t understand—”

“I understand perfectly,” Merlin snaps. His nervousness and his exhaustion are making him combative when he’d usually just let Arthur lecture him about knightly duty. “And it’s still ridiculous. You’re too important to throw your life away over some antagonistic remarks, and you won’t change my mind.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Arthur says coolly, but he doesn’t react to Merlin talking back as he once might have.

Another tense silence falls between them, and Arthur says in a lighter voice, maybe trying for levity, “I trust I still have your support for the fight?”

Merlin blinks, then looks at Arthur incredulously. “What, do you want a favour or something?”

Merlin’s expecting a waspish retort to this, as per their usual, but instead he watches as Arthur’s cheeks turn an interesting shade of pink.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur says, without much heat, suddenly very focused on fixing his leather glove.

Merlin blinks at him for a moment before he resumes the finishing tasks of armouring Arthur, trying not to envision his awful, untimely death and all of that. Then he wishes him luck, as always, and sends him into battle.

—

Arthur does win.

Thaddeus tries to kill him, of course. And, of course, Merlin is the only one in the whole of Camelot with a brain enough to notice.

Despite the sleep loss, Arthur holds the lead for most of the fight, buoyed by the enthusiasm of the surrounding crowds, but there’s one moment where Thaddeus unexpectedly switches hands on his blade and attacks Arthur on an unpredicted side-blow; imbalanced by the bait-and-switch, Arthur’s feet get crossed over each other and he falls, and Thaddeus doesn’t hesitate to strike out with a killing blow. Merlin has just a fleeting moment to watch Thaddeus swinging his blade downward before he acts, wrenching the sword from his grasp with a practiced flash of magic.

Thaddeus stares at his empty hand in confused, enraged disbelief for just a moment, but it gives Arthur enough time to recover and roll to his feet. Arthur gestures gallantly with his sword for Thaddeus to pick up his own, and Merlin watches Thaddeus’ lip curl in a snarl, his eyes beady with venom. He suspects Thaddeus would rather be killed in cold blood than owe any favour to Arthur.

It takes just a few more moments, but Arthur disarms Thaddeus and holds him at sword-point while the audience clamours for blood. There’s a moment when Merlin isn’t completely sure Arthur _won’t _kill him, but after a slight hesitation, Arthur withdraws the sword and holds out a hand for Thaddeus to take.

Thaddeus spits on the ground and ignores the hand, bumping past Arthur with a hard knock into his shoulder, which draws loud booing from the crowd.

Arthur keeps his hand extended for another moment to emphasize the lack of courtesy before he drops it and removes his helmet; the crowd screams for him and chants his name, but he only looks to Uther, perched high above the stands. Merlin sees Uther give an imperceptible nod as he applauds his son, and Arthur visibly relaxes.

“See?” Arthur says, smug when Merlin receives him at the end of the ring. “Told you I would win.”

“He almost had you, for a moment,” Merlin reminds him, following Arthur back into the tent. He adds, pointedly, “It’s a good thing he dropped his sword, otherwise you’d be dead.”

“So, what did you think?” Arthur asks, tipping his head back and closing his eyes to pour water over his sweaty face. As if Merlin notices.

“I’m not sure why my opinion matters,” Merlin says, as he always does when Arthur asks him for feedback on combat.

Arthur shrugs one shoulder and turns away from him so his face is hidden from view. “You’re right. It doesn’t. Help get this lot off.”

—

Unbelievably enough, Arthur, Elysia, and the rest of the princes use the remainder of the day to train. Merlin launches into a stern lecture about rest and recovery but is promptly shooed off, so he’s grumbling to himself as he heads up one of the main staircases to Arthur’s chambers, rounding the corner at the top—

—where he almost collides with Gwen. A tangle of brightly colored clothes burst from her arms and then tumble to the floor.

“Merlin!” Gwen says with a gasp, forgetting the clothes. “Oh, thank goodness you’re alright.”

“Alright?” Merlin says, already kneeling to scoop up the clothes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Gwen drops down next to him to help, her gaze covertly sweeping the hallway through a few stray dark curls. “I heard about last night.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “With…Thaddeus.”

“Oh, what? That was nothing,” Merlin protests. “Nothing even happened—is Arthur going around telling people about that?”

Gwen bites her lip, looking sheepish. “Not exactly. I heard it from Morgana.”

“Why does Morgana know?”

“She heard it from Arthur.”

Merlin sighs.

“I’m glad nothing happened,” Gwen says, her voice hardening. “Thaddeus is loathsome. I’m glad Arthur taught him a lesson this morning.”

“That’s what worries me,” Merlin says, getting to his feet and crossing to the arrowed window-slat with a view to the courtyard. There, he can see Arthur training with a few knights, and not far, training much more vigorously, his blows savage and his expression visibly twisted even from this distance—Thaddeus.

Gwen joins him, her brow creased with concern. “You think Thaddeus means to hurt Arthur?”

“I don’t think it,” Merlin says. “I know it. He meant to do it this morning, but—” Merlin stops himself. But what? A friendly neighbourhood sorcerer popped in and put a stop to it? “But he didn’t get the chance,” he finishes lamely.

Gwen watches him, her gaze searching and sharp. “How do you know?”

“I could tell by the way he was speaking last night,” Merlin says, and it’s not completely a lie. “He made some threats. I have no doubt he’ll try again on the hunt, when Arthur is even more isolated from view.”

“If you’re sure, you should tell Uther,” Gwen says, straightening at once. “He can arrest Thaddeus before anything happens.”

“You know as well as I do that Uther would never believe a servant’s word over a prince’s,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “I may as well sign my own death warrant while I’m at it.”

Gwen worries her lip with her teeth again, nodding slowly in silent, thoughtful agreement. They’ve both been uncomfortably well-acquainted with Uther’s hatred for servants.

“I’ll protect Arthur,” Merlin vows in a low voice, his eyes fixed to Arthur’s familiar form sparring below. “I don’t need Uther’s blessing to do it.”

Gwen rests a gentle hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “You’re just one man, Merlin. A very capable one, but still—just one.”

“It’s been enough until now,” Merlin says with more cheer than he feels, and briefly touches Gwen’s hand on his shoulder to let her know he appreciates the gesture.

For a moment they watch the royals training in silence, before Merlin says, for a lighter subject change, “What are your thoughts on Princess Elysia fighting?”

“Oh, I think it’s brilliant,” Gwen says, her face lighting up at once. “It’s about time, don’t you think?”

Merlin nods, then catches the faraway, admiring look on Gwen’s face as she watches Elysia fight below. He gives her a questioning nudge.

Gwen meets his gaze, then flushes when Merlin raises his eyebrows inquisitively. “Oh no, it’s not like that. I mean, she’s beautiful—and, y’know—very strong—but…you know. Morgana.”

Merlin frowns, at least three steps behind. “What does Morgana have to do with it?”

Gwen stares at him, her eyebrows slowly inching higher toward her hairline while she watches the wheels churn in Merlin’s brain.

Then abruptly, they click into place. “Oh. _Oh._”

“Yeah,” Gwen says, with a small, pleased smile. “For a while now, actually.”

“That’s amazing,” Merlin says, meaning it. “Just—be careful, and all that, you know? With Uther…and whatnot.”

“Oh, believe me, I know,” Gwen says, slouching her shoulders and casting her chin up in an exasperated motion. “I thought _I _was the careful one, but Morgana is frenetic about it. She’s very good at being sneaky, though.”

“That she is,” Merlin says, and they lapse into a companionable silence while they watch the men and lone woman train.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur celebrates his victory that night by getting fantastically drunk, which just means Merlin’s running around to fill up his cup twice as much as usual. Merlin’s not complaining too much, given he’s been generously allowed his fair share, but even through the pleasant haze of the wine, he can’t shake the crawling feeling of Thaddeus watching the two of them from across the room, unwavering in his surveillance for even a moment.

After an hour of this, Merlin inclines his head to talk low in Arthur’s ear, and he’s surprised to feel Arthur turn into it, their cheeks almost brushing.

“Thaddeus has been watching you like a hawk all night,” Merlin murmurs. “He’s got his eyes on the both of us right now.”

“Then let him look,” Arthur says in an equally low voice, suddenly sounding very not drunk at all, and Merlin blinks and straightens up to find Arthur watching him with a slightly unfocused gaze, but still unmistakably intent. That same electric feeling from the night before starts to stir between his ribs, and Merlin swallows, unbalanced by it.

Merlin casts a subtle look at Thaddeus under his lashes, and sees Thaddeus is now wearing a small, wolf-like smile as he watches them. Merlin grits his teeth, his fists clenching.

He leans in again. “Why d’you think he’s so fixated on the two of us?”

“Because he wants you,” Arthur replies, as if he hadn’t had to think about it. “And the man’s never been denied a single thing he wants in his entire life. It makes him dangerous.”

Merlin shifts from foot to foot, trying not to show how uncomfortable this thought makes him, and Arthur, in one of his surprisingly common intuitive moments, senses it; he grabs Merlin by the arm and reels him down again.

“I won’t let him touch you,” Arthur says, and perhaps the words are supposed to be comforting, but his voice is thrumming and so close that all the hair on the back of Merlin’s neck stands up in response to something else entirely.

Merlin exhales shakily, doing his best to ignore the sudden heat between them. “You’re drunk, Arthur.”

“Not as drunk as I’d like to be,” Arthur mutters, taking another long sip from his wine and staring blackly at Thaddeus.

Merlin takes a large step back, trying to clear his head. The wine is making him stupid and hot all over.

The evening drags, in spite of the alcohol. Merlin can’t stop looking at Arthur, and more than a handful of times, their eyes meet before immediately darting away. It’s ridiculous, Merlin thinks, and remembers some irreverent comment one of kitchen servants had made about the wine earlier—about how it was more _ enhanced _ than usual. Merlin knows it’s crock, just a raunchy joke to amuse the other servants while they toil away for the evening under their respective masters, but he can’t deny the strange pull he feels toward Arthur tonight, more potent than usual. He traces over his handsome features and feels his heart clench painfully with a helpless, tender yearning, and—

—right, this is why he doesn’t do this. With Arthur. It hurts too much. Beyond being purely masochistic, it's futile to entertain. He shoves the sentiment down and buries it under several layers of metaphorical grave-dirt.

Besides, it’s hare-brained to moon over Arthur on tonight of all evenings, when he’s directly under Thaddeus’ scrutiny.

At one point, about an hour later into the wining and dining, Arthur stands abruptly, drawing stares from the surrounding attendees; a slight hush falls over the hall as Arthur excuses himself without so much as a by-your-leave. Confused stares follow after him—it’s not proper etiquette for a prince, after all, let alone a hosting one—before they settle on Merlin, as if he can provide some sort of explanation. Merlin notices Uther’s and Morgana’s reactions, respectively scowling and inquisitive, before they resume their conversations. Gwen, at Morgana’s side, meets Merlin’s eyes across the room and gives a curious frown.

Doing his best to mask his own confusion, Merlin gives a slight bow to the gazes and whispers and follows after where Arthur’s left the hall. He ignores Thaddeus’ shrewd, gleaming eyes, trailing him all the way out.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, following after his caped form from one hallway to the next. “Arthur, stop.”

When they get closer to Arthur’s chambers, Arthur does stop in the middle of the hall, his back still to Merlin, his fists clenched at his sides. Moonlight’s pouring in from the window slats, touching his silhouette to silvers and grays.

“What’s the matter?” Merlin asks, stopping uncertainly just behind him. “It’s not like you to just…leave.”

“I needed some fresh air,” Arthur says. “I just—I feel…strange. I don’t know what’s come over me.”

“Strange as in unwell?” Merlin asks, suddenly worried, and he comes around so that he’s facing Arthur from the front. Arthur doesn’t exactly _look_ ill—his cheeks are flushed with uneven patches of colour, his eyes slightly hazy and his pupils dark. “Are you sure you’re not just…y’know…drunk?”

“I’m not drunk,” Arthur snaps, closing his eyes as if to banish Merlin from his line of sight. “I’m fine.”

“Well, they _did_ say the wine tonight is a mild aphrodisiac,” Merlin jokes, and the second the words leave him, he’s not sure why he said it. His teeth snap shut with a click, and he swallows.

Arthur opens his eyes to give him a slightly wild look, and for the first time, Merlin considers that he may not be well after all.

“Arthur,” he says, stepping forward to lay a hand on his shoulder, but Arthur swats him away.

“Don’t,” he says, steely, but there’s a slight shake in his voice. “Merlin, just—don’t.”

“Is this about Thaddeus?” Merlin asks in a low voice. “Because if you just ignore him, he’ll—”

Arthur curls his lip. “I don’t care about that _rat._”

“Then what is it?” Merlin says. “Arthur, tell me.”

“I can’t,” Arthur says between his teeth, as though the words are being bodily dragged from him, and Merlin’s not sure if he’s speaking to him or himself.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, softer now, but before he can say anything else, Arthur moves, warrior-quick, ducking them into the nearest shaded alcove and pinning Merlin against the wall with a hard, juddering thump.

“_Arthur_—” Merlin’s voice is no more than a wheezy squeak, all his breath crushed out of him and wildly confused as to what’s going on.

For some reason, when Arthur leans closer, Merlin’s expecting he’s going to get hit, and he’s still trying to decode this bout of anger when he realises he’s got it wrong—Arthur’s not angry, he’s trembling, a strange energy coming off him in pulses. His mouth is inches from Merlin’s, his eyebrows knitted together and his eyes nearly black. Merlin’s still two steps behind, thinking Arthur wants to say something to him, something muttered low and conspiratorial or maybe threatening, but instead Arthur stops short, so close that Merlin can feel his warm breath on his mouth, heady and wine-sweet.

Merlin stops struggling—he goes slack against Arthur’s grip, his breathing coming faster. There’s no way that Arthur—there’s no way that this is—that he’s going to—

And just like that, before Merlin can blink, Arthur wrenches himself away, muttering a low, heartfelt curse before he spins on his heel and starts off down the hallway.

“_Hey,_” Merlin calls after him, which carries zero authority given his voice is almost gone, sapped completely by whatever that display had been.

“Leave me,” Arthur throws over his shoulder.

“Oh, not a chance,” Merlin snaps, storming after him. “What the _hell_ was that? You don’t get to just—_do that, _and then trot off like nothing happened—d’you realise that I’m a flesh-and-blood person, not some rag doll thing that you can throw into walls whenever you feel like bullying someone—”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, with a dangerous edge, and he halts in his tracks and swivels slowly to face Merlin. Merlin stops too, still burning up, zinging with arousal and righteous anger. “I said leave me.”

“Oh, why?” Merlin says. “So you can run off and sulk in your chambers and yell for me when you get bored of that—”

“If you don’t leave,” Arthur says, calmly, his face still flushed and his eyes still dark, “I’m going to throw you into bed with me, and I don’t think that’s something either of us really wants.”

Merlin completely blanks at that. Can’t even process the words, let alone the accompanying imagery of what that would entail. He just stares at Arthur in mute shock, Arthur staring back with that resolute calm, his skin smooth like marble in the dim moonlight, the dark hollows of his cheeks stark.

“_What_?” is all Merlin can come up with, and then asks the first question his brain supplies. “Is it—the wine?”

“Oh, bugger the wine,” Arthur snaps, some in-character irritation replacing whatever oddly still spell had stolen over him.

“I don’t…understand,” Merlin says, and he truly doesn’t. He feels like he took a misstep into the wrong reality, and now he has to claw his way back before he loses his mind completely.

“Nor do I, believe me,” Arthur mutters, then turns and heads off again.

“Hey,” Merlin calls out feebly again, following after him. He’s still vibrating from the closeness of Arthur’s touch, his head muzzy with the wine; his tongue feels thick in his dry mouth. Arthur may be content to just drop that proposition and leave, but Merlin certainly isn’t.

“Arthur,” he says, catching up to him again, and he’s not sure why he’s doing what he’s doing, maybe trying to goad some sort of definitive reaction out of him, or to chase that closeness back—either way, he gets it, as Arthur turns and grabs him by the neckerchief so fast that Merlin almost chokes, and he walks them to the nearest wall again, Merlin’s shoulders hitching uncomfortably into the stones, and this time, before Arthur can stop or pull back, Merlin meets him halfway, their mouths crashing together.

Arthur seems almost startled, like he wasn’t expecting it somehow, and Merlin feels much drunker than before, riding an adrenaline high and the sudden, primal draw of Arthur’s scent, so he just—kisses Arthur until he can’t breathe, because he’s not sure when he’ll get another chance, and he has a moment of realisation while he’s doing it: how long he’s been waiting for precisely this.

Arthur’s trembling again when they draw apart, and Merlin’s gasping for breath, and Arthur just looks at him with those dazed, eclipse-dark eyes, his mouth red even in the dark of the hall, and then he says, his voice rough, “You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Merlin’s not about to question why this is happening, if it’s the alcohol or a strange mood or some weird, hyper-masculine, chivalric standoff with Thaddeus—he doesn’t care. He doesn’t even care that it’ll hurt later—doesn’t care if Arthur doesn’t want him back the way that he, Merlin, wants him. His vision has narrowed to a fixed end-point, blinded to all consequences, and that end-point is getting underneath Arthur right this very instant. Arthur’s leg is slotted between his, and he rolls his hips against it, gasping at the rush from it.

“Merlin,” Arthur says in a wrecked, pained voice, leaning in again, and it’s at that moment they hear footsteps on the stone, followed by the echoing, rowdy laughter of drunken knights. Arthur freezes, his hand painfully pincering Merlin’s wrist, and he drags them the few remaining steps to Arthur’s chambers, opening the door and shoving him inside.

“Before this goes any further,” Merlin begins, even as Arthur advances toward him with purpose, “you should know that I—”

_I what?_ Don’t expect anything from this? Don’t expect anything from you? Love—?

Arthur evidently doesn’t care about whatever Merlin has to say, as per usual, and Merlin doesn’t possess a single form of resistance to Arthur eager and aroused and in his immediate personal space, so he doesn’t say a word further when Arthur kisses him again, his full body behind it. It’s all he can do to keep his knees from buckling weakly under the power of it, and they manage to shuffle backward toward the bed even as Arthur tugs at his scarf until it falls away.

The backs of Arthur’s knees hit the mattress and he sits, his hands on Merlin’s hips, their mouths still connected; he sits so that Merlin’s standing in the vee of his open legs, and Merlin presses his advantage, leaning over him so that Arthur uses one arm to brace himself upright against the bed, his head tilted back, Merlin’s hands on either side of his jaw.

Merlin brings a hand between them, moving purposefully, and Arthur’s arm gives completely at that, sprawling Merlin on top of him flat-out, which seems to be fine by both parties. Merlin’s so focused on Arthur, the physicality and the rush of what they’re doing, that it’s easy to ignore his logical hind-brain screaming that _this is Arthur, _what’s going on, what is his life, they should stop, oh God, don’t stop—

Arthur is breathing jaggedly when they break apart for the first time, his cheeks pink and his hair mussed and his eyes glazed over, and no, there isn’t a single power in the universe that could pry Merlin from this. He’d sacrifice everything, his life, his magic, his destiny, whatever was asked of him.

One very convincing, probable thought brings him up short then—what if this isn’t real? What if Arthur’s enchanted (again), or if Thaddeus is somehow behind this with some evil sex potion? He voices these doubts aloud, to which Arthur rolls his eyes and says “for God’s _sake_” in such an Arthur voice that Merlin is appeased.

They work at each other’s tunics, Arthur considerably less practiced at it than Merlin is for obvious reasons, but the brief struggle is worth it for the open expanse of skin, muscle, warmth, Arthur’s hands on his bare back, his hips.

“You’re quite fit,” Arthur says with an insulting amount of surprise, his hand fitted to Merlin’s bicep.

Merlin huffs. “All you do is hit me with swords and maces and axes, ‘course I am.”

“You do realise that by doing that, I’m training you, right?” Arthur says, raising an eyebrow as though he’s seriously questioning Merlin’s intellect. “So you’re not completely helpless in a fight? You do realise that’s what’s happening.”

Merlin’s mouth falls open, then snaps shut again. “…the thought did not occur to me, no. I really just thought you enjoyed torturing me.”

Arthur smirks. “That too.”

Torture is right. Merlin’s practically aching with need, as he’s sure Arthur can tell, because his trousers don’t conceal much. He takes his time though, wanting to drink in every moment of this before it ends, dragging one long kiss out from Arthur and then another, and another. Arthur chases them eagerly before eventually breaking away to speak, and Merlin simply repositions, pressing his mouth to Arthur’s jaw, then his neck and collarbone.

“I loathe Thaddeus, but he’s right,” Arthur says, suddenly desperate, the words hot in the space between them, too fast to be taken back. “The thought of you with someone else—you have no idea what you’ve done to me—”

“Don’t,” Merlin says, severely, “bring up Thaddeus again while we do this.”

Arthur closes his eyes, his breathing ragged. “I can’t think straight. I have no idea what I’m saying.”

“I was enjoying the general direction of it,” Merlin says.

“Ignore everything I say,” Arthur says, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear some irritating sound.

“Not a chance of that,” Merlin says.

The idea of Arthur wanting him like this, wholly and completely and singularly, seems suddenly surreal. Merlin had always thought it’d been the reverse between them: Arthur was his in a way that couldn’t be explained or fully understood, a deeply integral and unspoken part of him. Maybe it had started out as cryptic prophecies, destiny, the mechanisms of external forces, but something inexplicable had reshaped Merlin by knowing Arthur, some alchemical force of connection that bound him fast and rendered him completely helpless to its draw. The depth of that feeling has terrified him more often than not, but to know Arthur feels it too, in even some capacity, makes him feel suddenly awake, hungry, alight in ways he never has before. 

This is always what this has been leading to, he realises in a flash of clarity.

“Merlin,” Arthur murmurs, his hand curling around the nape of Merlin’s neck, his other palming Merlin’s ribs.

Suddenly, there are three loud bangs at the door. A sudden, icy terror lances Merlin to the bone, and he feels Arthur freeze underneath him.

“Under the bed,” Arthur says in a low voice, “now.”

Merlin doesn’t hesitate to obey, scrambling off Arthur and sliding under the bed just as the door slams open. Arthur had evidently been too distracted and horn-brained to latch it.

“Father,” Arthur says in a measured tone that Merlin can’t imagine summoning, given what had just been going on. Merlin’s stomach drops to his feet. He hopes Arthur had time to throw something on. “What’s going on?”

“I came to speak to you about a…delicate matter that’s been brought to my attention,” says Uther. “Where’s the boy?”

“The boy?” Arthur echoes.

“Your servant boy.”

Merlin goes tense, the hard floor cold and painful against his bare shoulder-blades. _This is it, _he thinks with a flash of dizzying panic. _The magic. He knows. _He glances over, sees his own discarded tunic on the floor—blessedly on the opposite side of the bed from Uther—and pulls it under with him.

“How would I know?” Arthur says, with just enough bluster to conceal the edge of nervousness that Merlin can detect. “He’s probably with Gaius. What do you need Merlin for?”

“It’s been brought to my attention by some of our guests that there may be something…untoward happening between the two of you,” Uther says, each word picked with cold and deliberate precision. “And I came here to _ensure_ that the situation is not as it’s been portrayed to me.”

“Untoward,” Arthur repeats, as though he’s never heard the word.

“Yes. It’s been suggested by—certain parties—”

“You mean Prince Thaddeus,” Arthur interrupts sharply.

“The source doesn’t matter,” Uther replies, much steelier than a moment ago. It’s the tone he employs when passing sentence, and no matter his contempt for Uther, it always manages to make Merlin’s skin crawl with fear.

“It does matter,” Arthur says, holding his ground, and Merlin could kiss him for it. “Thaddeus has a grudge against Merlin. He’s been tormenting him all week.”

“He’s a _servant,_” Uther says with exasperation.

“You know Thaddeus is dishonest and self-serving,” Arthur presses. “You heard what he had to say about our family, about our kingdom just last night.”

“He is still a nobleman and a prince, and our guest,” Uther says. “And I will hear what he has to say where it concerns the reputation of our court.”

Merlin can feel Arthur’s anger radiating, palpable, throughout the distance between them. He holds his breath.

“Now, your unusual…closeness with the boy has not escaped my awareness, and I’ve allowed it to continue because I saw no harm in it,” Uther says, as though he’s talking about a cherished pet. “But enough is enough, Arthur. We have appearances to consider.”

“_Appearances?_” Arthur says. “Neither of us has done anything! Thaddeus is _lying_.” Then he adds, in a mutter, “God forbid I’m friends with my own manservant.”

“A crown prince has no friends,” Uther snaps. “Only allies, enemies, and subjects. If you don’t know that by now, then I’ve failed in schooling you.”

Arthur remains silent, and Merlin’s been holding his breath so long that he’s starting to feel lightheaded.

“You’ll find a new servant,” Uther says, “and have the boy sacked tomorrow.”

Merlin feels a sensation like a knife through his ribs. Not serve Arthur? What would he do? Leave Camelot? He can’t leave Camelot, not with the whole destined-for-Albion-greatness charge—

He can’t leave Arthur.

Then, to his shock, Arthur says, steadily, “No.”

A deadly silence falls like a blow, and in a matching voice, Uther says, “What did you just say to me?”

“I said no,” Arthur says, and Merlin can picture his chin tilted up, his gaze cool. “I don’t want another servant. Merlin’s done nothing wrong, and I won’t see him punished for something he didn’t do.”

“It’s even clearer to me than before that your commitment to duty has been clouded by whatever…feelings are involved with the peasant boy.” Uther spits the last two words, like they’re a bad taste. “You will sack him at once.”

“I will not,” Arthur says.

Merlin hears the rustle of Uther’s cape as he leans closer to Arthur, the words delivered through his teeth. “Do not make this a battle of wills, Arthur. I have no qualms sending the boy to the gallows just to teach you a lesson, if that’s what must be done to make you see sense.”

Merlin’s whole being has gone cold; he feels like he’s out of his body, as though he’s a ghost watching the conversation from the corner of the room. Surely Arthur will concede, now that his life is at stake—surely—

“If you send him to the gallows, I’ll go with him,” Arthur says calmly, and there’s a loud, explosive bang as Uther kicks over a chair.

“Damn it, Arthur!” he shouts. “My word is final, and I will not reconsider. Sack the boy tomorrow, or I’ll see to it that the day is his last.” There’s the heavy, retreating sound of boots, then the loud slam of the door, and then silence.

Merlin releases the breath he’s holding, blood pulsing loudly in his skull.

There’s another beat, and then he sees Arthur’s bare feet come round toward him, and a second later, he extends a hand under the bed. Merlin takes it, and Arthur pulls him out and then to his feet.

“That was stupid,” Merlin says shakily, “you shouldn’t have told him off like that. Arthur—”

He loses the rest of whatever he was going to say because Arthur pins him against the bedpost and kisses him with an edge of desperation that hadn’t been there before. This tactic is supremely successful in distracting Merlin for a couple moments before he recovers the plot, and then he says against Arthur’s mouth, “Arthur. Arthur, stop.”

“My father doesn’t bluff,” Arthur says, pulling back with an imploring look. “He will make true on his word.” A strange expression crosses his face, one that Merlin can’t decrypt, and he says, much more urgently, “Merlin, you can’t do anything to draw his attention. Nothing that’s—” He stares at Merlin meaningfully, which is to say Merlin has no clue what the meaning is. “—illegal.”

“Illegal?” Merlin says, still not comprehending. “What do you mean?”

“He’ll be watching you now more closely than ever,” Arthur says, staring at Merlin and widening his eyes with intent, like he’s speaking in code. “If you know what I mean.”

“_What? _” Merlin says, at this point totally lost.

“You idiot,” Arthur snaps, then kisses him again.

Merlin, once again, loses track of anything important that’s happening outside of the sensation of Arthur’s mouth against his, their limbs tangled around each other to get as close as possible, so he’s quite put out when Arthur pulls back and snarls, “Thaddeus, that _ vermin. _”

“What did I say about bringing him up,” Merlin says, refocusing on the pulse point thudding fast right under Arthur’s jaw. He kisses it, and Arthur exhales shakily and tilts his head back to grant him better access, still speaking even as he closes his eyes.

“I’m going to kill him,” he says as Merlin presses kisses along the sharp cut of his jawline. “And I’ll make it look like an accident—”

“As, er, erotic as it is to hear you threaten people, can we maybe not,” Merlin suggests.

Arthur goes quiet, except for his accelerated, ragged breathing, his eyes still closed under Merlin’s touch, before he says, musingly, “When we’re on the hunt tomorrow, I can aim a crossbow at the creature and instead, I’ll—”

“For God’s sake,” Merlin says, shoving at Arthur’s broad chest so that he stumbles back, the backs of his knees hitting the mattress’ edge and buckling. Judging by the wild, surprised look Arthur gives him, he must like it quite a lot, because he compliantly shuts up when Merlin kisses him again, his hands sliding up Merlin’s sides, the exposed skin pebbled with goosebumps. As it turns out, Uther’s interruption and death threats are relatively easy to ignore.

A few moments later, when they’re on the bed again, Arthur stops and says, with completely endearing but unnecessary severity, “I won’t let anything happen to you,” and Merlin almost laughs, because he’s spent every exhausting moment of his waking hours making quite sure that nothing happens to either of them, very much without Arthur’s help, but the sentiment is so unexpectedly earnest and sweet coming from Arthur that Merlin just says, soft, “Okay,” and kisses him again.

For all his difficulty and stubbornness and infuriating prattishness, Arthur is a gentle and attentive lover, and it makes parts of Merlin go gooey over him in ways he didn’t even imagine existed, given how gooey he already felt toward him. And Arthur is reactive, as though he’s never been touched before, which Merlin truly can’t fathom.

“Have you done this before?” Merlin can’t resist asking after he kisses Arthur’s hipbone, and Arthur jolts at the touch and makes a startled, soft sound.

“Have you?” Arthur snaps, with his usual irritability, but the colour is high in his cheeks, and Merlin sees the defensiveness for what it is.

“Once or twice,” Merlin says, sensing that the truthful four or five times wouldn’t go over well. “But I mean, well—y’know—have you ever done this with a man?”

“Have you?” Arthur says again.

“You’re terrible at deflecting,” Merlin says with a grin.

“I am _ excellent _at deflecting, I’ve been doing it my whole life,” Arthur replies, glaring at him without much heat.

“That’s sadder than I think you imagined it would sound.”

“_You’re _sad,” Arthur retorts, narrowing his eyes down his body at Merlin.

“I’m actually quite content, at the moment,” Merlin says with a bright, cheeky smile, and continues with what he was doing until Arthur loses words entirely.

“I never thought that—” Arthur says, panting a few moments later. “How are you so _ bloody good at this— _”

Merlin pulls off at this to say, “One of my many gifts,” before he resumes his task with renewed concentration. Arthur’s fingers curl in his hair, palming the crown of his head, and tighten, tugging in small motions to direct Merlin where he wants him.

“Merlin,” he says, “God, _ Merlin—_”

Neither of them gets a wink of sleep that night.


	4. Chapter 4

Given the whole “sacking” and all, Merlin isn’t allowed to accompany Arthur on the hunt, but of course he goes anyway. He waits until after the ceremonial send-off, giving the hunting party a head-start before he takes a horse and follows their trail. He maintains a safe mile’s distance behind them as the group gets closer to the Darkling Woods, upon which the ten royals and their servants split up and go separate ways for the hunt.

It takes only a simple, wordless spell to follow Arthur’s path, and he gives the horse a nudge to the ribs so they’re at a full gallop. Merlin’s still sore from the activities of the previous night, but he doesn’t mind. He’d take the pain of it any day.

Arthur’s riding at a much slower clip to track the beast, so it only takes about fifteen minutes to catch up to him; when Merlin finds him, he’s off his horse, crouching in the dense undergrowth of the forest and frowning to himself.

Arthur snaps to his feet at once when he hears Merlin’s horse, and when he sees him, he shouts, “_What are you doing here,_” which Merlin doesn’t think is a sufficiently warm greeting for someone risking execution to be here.

“Good to see you too,” Merlin says, pulling the horse to a stop and hopping off.

“Unbelievable,” Arthur says, scowling at him. “Do you have any respect at all for following instructions?”

“Mmm...no.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, running a hand over his face with the air of a man driven to profound exhaustion. “If my father finds out you’re here—”

“He won’t. Gaius said he’ll cover for me if Uther thinks to ask after me. I’m collecting herbs for whooping cough, see?”

“_Thaddeus _is here, you dolt,” Arthur says. “We could run into him anywhere, and he wouldn’t hesitate to let my father know—”

“We’re losing time on the hunt,” Merlin says, brushing past Arthur. “You do want to win, right?”

Arthur growls something under his breath but follows after Merlin, scanning the forest floor as he goes for signs of tracks.

“Besides, you need me,” Merlin says.

“What exactly are _ you _going to do?”

“Er…you know. Moral support.”

“God help me,” Arthur says to the ground.

They carry on, back on horseback. Perhaps it should feel odd, traveling together like they always do after what had happened last night, but it doesn’t. Arthur’s still grousing at him every step of the way, and insulting his intellectual capabilities, and Merlin thinks he might be relieved for it.

There is one moment where Merlin has to stop his horse in its tracks for a moment, wincing at the sharp ache from the previous night, and Arthur draws to a halt next to him and says, “What’s the matter with you?”

“I—it’s—” There’s no way to phrase it without mortally offending Arthur’s sense of propriety, which Merlin had found to be a very odd and uncharacteristically delicate quirk when they’d been in the midst of things last night, but he supposes it comes with the territory of sleeping with a knight. “It’s—er—let’s just leave it at I’m sore, and it’s not from the horse.”

Arthur’s eyes darken with understanding, and Merlin hears his breathing stagger as he wets his lips. He swears, and looks very much like he’s considering taking Merlin against the nearest tree, but they are in fact in the middle of a hunt of some significance, so Merlin just says, with not-inconsiderable heroism, “Later. We should stay focused.”

“Right,” Arthur says, snapping his head forward. “Focused.”

They do a fairly admirable job of staying focused—which mostly just means Merlin trailing beside Arthur like a stray duckling while he does the actual tracking—but Merlin can’t stop sneaking sideways glances at Arthur, and every time he does, Arthur is also covertly glancing back at him, and then they quickly look away, and each time, Merlin gets a dizzying, heady rush from it and it—it’s ridiculous, is what it is, the whole thing. He’s been pining after Arthur to a humiliating degree for years, but none of it had given him a single ounce of preparation for this.

Arthur eventually stops with one gloved hand up, the other on his sword-hilt, and he dismounts to crouch and examine a snapped branch.

“It’s close,” he says, then points to a fresh boot-print in the mud nearby. “And we’re not the only ones who’ve found its trail. We should leave the horses here and go on foot so we don’t scare it off.”

For the first time, Merlin considers what will happen if Thaddeus actually _ does _see him, when each of the royals is rule-bound to hunt alone. Then he tries very hard not to think about it, because that would be very, very bad.

He can also sense the faintest trace of foreign magic in the air, like an unfamiliar odor lingering from an unknown source. The creature _ was _here, and recently.

“It looks like the other prince’s tracks go off that way,” Arthur says, standing and pointing off through the trees. “But my estimation, the creature’s headed this way.” He makes a new path with his hand, only a few degrees off from the other prince’s trail. “Come on.”

Merlin pays closer attention as they go, tuning in to where he can sense that fizzing, ancient magic growing stronger and stronger with each step.

After several more minutes of following Arthur’s hunch, they find the monster in a small forested clearing, resting under a rocky overhang.

It rears up hissing and spitting when it spots them, and Merlin takes a moment to process the sight while Arthur shouts at him to get back. Its three, reptilian heads bob in different directions as it unleashes a hoarse, gravelly scream from one of its throats. Despite the trio of heads, each with a terrifying set of glowing yellow eyes, it has a single, giant, scaly body, with a long, curling tail that seems to be barbed with something at the end, possibly venomous. It bares its long teeth at Arthur, its long forked tongues flickering out, and it’s only when the creature screams furiously again that Merlin hears something else.

Something else entirely.

“Arthur, stop!” Merlin shouts. “She’s trying to say something!”

“Are you mad?!” Arthur readjusts his grip on the crossbow. “It’s trying to kill us!”

“_Wait! _”

The translation spell is silent, simple, but effective; when Merlin applies it, the creature begins to speak, a throaty, garbled mash of words as though its vocal cords have never been used before. 

Arthur freezes at once, because now its words have become intelligible to him too.

“Please,” the creature croaks. “_Help—me_.”

Arthur raises the crossbow and aims at its chest, but looks much more uncertain than before, faltering in his grip.

“Arthur, don’t shoot her,” Merlin says. “Please.”

“If I kill it, I win the Fiach,” Arthur retorts, but Merlin can sense his wavering conviction. He’s a hunter, not a killer. Except for, well—

“Are we forgetting the unicorn debacle?”

Arthur lowers the crossbow to his side to turn on Merlin. “Are you _ ever _going to let that drop—”

“Please,” the creature rasps, “let me speak.”

Arthur hoists the crossbow up again and Merlin holds his breath—then slowly releases it when Arthur lowers his weapon once more.

“I’ll hear what you have to say,” Arthur says, and Merlin feels a surge of fierce pride, as he always does when he catches glimpses of the king Arthur will be. “But be quick.”

“This form is not mine,” the creature’s left head says. “It’s an old, old curse. I cannot remember my true name, but I know that I was human, once. Royal.”

Merlin looks to Arthur, breath bated, who narrows his eyes, uncertain of whether or not to believe her.

“My family angered a High Priestess, and in revenge, she cursed me to forever occupy this form,” the creature says in that horrid, graveling grate of a voice. “Every ten years, I die in the Fiach, but I never truly die. I am always brought back. The curse will not be so easily defeated.”

“How can we free you?” Merlin asks.

“Merlin,” Arthur hisses, slanting an angry glance at him sideways.

“There is—” The Ellén Trechend pauses, as though she’s trying to wrangle her vocal cords back into her control. “—a spell that the High Priestess used. I’ve kept it alive in my memory for all this time, reciting the words so I will not forget. But in all my years, I have not encountered a warlock powerful enough to wield it. Or one capable of understanding my true voice.”

Merlin balls his fists until his knuckles hurt. He has a horrible, sinking feeling in his gut that he knows where this conversation is going.

The creature’s six eyes alight on him, glowing. “It must be your magic, Emrys. It’s the only thing powerful enough to set me free.”

Merlin feels the earth drop out from under his feet. _Arthur_. Arthur’s standing right there, hearing every word.

There’s one, prolonged beat where time seems to freeze over, then Arthur speaks.

“_Merlin_?” he says, arch with disbelief. “Merlin can’t help you—”

Merlin opens his mouth, already reaching for ten different lies to spin the situation.

“—his magic is rubbish!” Arthur snaps.

“I’m not a sorcerer,” Merlin says, then says, “What?”

Arthur turns to scowl at him. “I don’t think a spell to clean a chamber-pot is going to be much use to us.”

“I’m _fantastic _at magic,” Merlin says, momentarily too insulted to be shocked, then says, “Wait, hang on—”

“Emrys’ magic is the only on earth with the power enough to break the binding that holds me,” the Ellén Trechend’s middle head says. “The spell is ancient, and deep, and—”

Merlin’s ignoring the monster. “Are you saying that—all this time—I—you—”

“What _are _you gibbering about?” Arthur says.

“You knew about the magic?”

Arthur stares at him with huge eyes, then says, “Yes,” with emphasis, “you absolute oaf.”

Merlin sinks to his knees, burying his head in his hands.

“Are you honestly telling me—” Arthur says, “—that _ you didn’t think I knew— _”

“Of course I didn’t think you knew! I figured I would be frying on a spit if you did!”

Arthur throws his hands up. “Why else do you think I told you to stay out of my father’s line of sight last night? Or the time last week on patrol when I said, ‘Merlin, magick us up some firewood, would you?’”

“_I thought you were joking._”

“Dear bloody God,” Arthur says.

“Excuse me,” the Ellén Trechend says.

“I thought you were just bad at magic,” Arthur says. “I didn’t realise you were actually truly, deeply, irreparably idiotic.”

“I’m great at magic,” Merlin protests. “That’s my whole—that’s the whole point of—of course you would insult the _one thing I’m good at—_”

“I’ve seen your little spells, Merlin,” Arthur says dismissively. “Lighting a campfire, cleaning stains out of trousers and whatnot. I don’t think it’s going to help us here.”

“_You’re _the idiot!” Merlin yells, then fells a tree just to make a point.

“We don’t have much time before the rest of the hunting party arrives, and they will not hesitate to kill me,” the Ellén Trechend’s middle head says, her patience clearly waning. “Emrys, will you free me or not?”

“I—I don’t know how to,” Merlin says. “But I can try.”

“I know the spell,” the Ellén Trechend’s left head says while the right one wags back and forth impatiently. “It just needs a conduit to conduct the magic. I have never met one powerful enough until now.”

“A conduit,” Arthur echoes, flatly. “_That_ sounds promising.” Then he appraises the expression on Merlin’s face and says, “Merlin, don’t tell me you’re _actually _planning to—”

“Quiet,” Merlin grits out, his eyes closed. “I’m thinking.”

“When you’re ready,” the Ellén Trechend’s middle head tells him, “come forth and I’ll pass the knowledge to you.”

“Merlin, _don’t,_” Arthur says, an edge of panic creeping into his voice for the first time. “That’s an order, do you hear me? You don’t know whether or not this thing will kill you—”

“It won’t,” Merlin says. “I know what I’m doing.”

“You have _no idea_ what you’re doing—”

Merlin turns to fix Arthur with a hard stare. “I won’t let a fellow creature of magic suffer.”

Arthur just stares at him, speechless.

Merlin walks forward, his magic humming to life in response to such ancient energy, and it buzzes stronger with each step he takes. He reaches out a tentative hand to the Ellén Trechend’s giant, malformed middle head, and she closes her eyes wearily and rests her scaly forehead to Merlin’s palm the way a tired horse would. She sighs.

Whispers in another language fill Merlin’s head and overlap on each other like ocean tides, drowning out Arthur shouting at him just feet away, and Merlin blocks out all outside sounds, the forest, his own breathing and heartbeat. It takes just a few minutes, and when he opens his eyes, he can feel the foreign words perched on the tip of his tongue, ready to burst from him.

“Are you ready?” Merlin asks, magic humming higher and higher, shaking through his bones.

The Ellén Trechend says, “I’ve been ready for so long.”

Merlin begins to chant the words at the front of his mind, the strength of the magic dropping his voice low and guttural, and as he does, something shakes loose in him, some old and dormant power stirring to life.

He feels the magic explode from him, latching onto the core of the Ellén Trechend, and things start to go fuzzy and black around the edges of his vision; he hears Arthur scream his name once before the rest of the world goes dark and he falls.


	5. Chapter 5

For a while, he thinks he might be dead. Or, he doesn’t _think _it, because he doesn’t think anything at all for a bit there. But it is a reasonable thing to think, after all. His sluggish mind casts out drunkenly to piece words and thoughts together; he can hear someone calling his name through the dark water, and in the muddled haze of it, he thinks it might be his mother. Some childlike part of him curls toward her, and in that moment he comes closer to the surface, close enough to realise it’s a man’s voice yelling out to him.

Who? His mind grapples, struggles to remember. He can feel the sensations tethered to the man’s voice—old, well-trod echoes of love, warmth, fondness, protectiveness, desire. Someone who meant something to him. He struggles in earnest now, thrashing to get closer to the voice, closer to that memory.

“Merlin,” the muffled voice says, “Merlin, Merlin, _please_.”

_Merlin_, that’s his name. He’d known it all along. His magic flickers back to life in his veins, an old and cherished friend he comes home to like a hearth.

His name is Merlin, and he is magic. And then there’s his mother, and the nameless man he loves.

“Emrys,” says an unfamiliar female voice, cajoling in tone. His mother? No. His mother had never called him that. “Come back to us, Emrys. It’s been long enough.”

“You did this to him,” the man’s voice accuses, and Merlin thinks he might be crying.

“Emrys made this choice,” the woman says. “And he is not quite gone from us yet.”

He feels warmth then—physical warmth, a weight, anchoring him back to his bones. He’s being held fast.

“You idiot,” the man says.

That’s a new name too, but one he recognises.

“Please, Merlin,” the man begs, “please—”

_Arthur_, that’s his name. Just like that, with the name, it’s like a small sun illuminates inside his chest, candlelight guttering to life in his inner braziers. Arthur, of course. Arthur, who he loves; Arthur, the complementary half to Merlin. It’s time to get back to him.

He swims upward now, kicking out, the darkness growing milkier and more diluted at the edges, now riddled through with the sunlight behind his eyelids. He’s at the brim of consciousness now, like a man trapped just beneath a layer of ice.

“He’s coming back,” the woman’s voice says. “I knew he would.”

He hears Arthur’s breath catch, and then he feels himself being shaken. “Merlin. _Merlin_, wake up.”

Merlin’s eyes flutter open, and the canopy of the trees wheel around him in spinning greens; he groans, suddenly very sick.

“Welcome back, Emrys,” the woman says warmly.

He’s just enjoying the feeling of consciousness and being alive when Arthur slaps him—not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to startle him further awake.

“_Ow_,” he says groggily, “wha—”

“You _idiot,_” Arthur says through clenched teeth, sounding borderline hysterical, and when Merlin finally refocuses his gaze, he finally sees Arthur, a halo of sunlight crowning his golden hair and his eyes red-rimmed and angry. Just as beautiful and righteous as Merlin remembers him. “What the _hell _were you thinking, you nearly _died—_”

“But I didn’t,” Merlin slurs, which he thinks, for his current mental state, is an excellent counterpoint.

“I’m going to kill you,” Arthur says, but instead he drags him up to kiss him, hard and warm and desperate, and then Merlin finds himself being gathered up again, tight in Arthur’s grasp against his chest.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, trying out the name, feeling very warm and solid indeed.

“If you _ever_ do that again,” Arthur says, still holding him, “I swear I’ll kill you myself.”

Merlin tries to laugh, but it whistles pathetically out of his lungs; he refocuses his gaze over Arthur’s shoulder to see a beautiful, unfamiliar woman, her honeyed hair falling in wild tresses over her shoulders past her waist, as though it hasn’t been cut in years. She regards him with warmth, her golden eyes alight.

“Emrys,” she says. “My name is Eibhlín, the former Lady of Daobeth. Your reputation far precedes you, but I confess I doubted it until now. I owe you a great debt, for you freed me where so many others could not—where so many others turned instead to fear and violence, over the many years of my life.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Merlin rasps.

“All the same. You have made a friend for life.” She nods, then gestures toward him. “You should feel your magic coming back to you now; it simply needed to recover.”

Merlin nods; he feels his magic like a heartbeat inside him, and can reach for it as steady as a limb. He’s coming back to himself.

“What happened?” he asks, and his tongue feels chalky in his mouth; he swallows a few times to get rid of the taste.

“The whole forest lit up,” Arthur says, “and then you collapsed. Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like—”

“Mm,” Merlin says, wriggling a bit to sit up, but Arthur’s still got him in a death grip, to which Arthur mutters a quick embarrassed apology and lets him go.

“If my magic was as bright as you said, the others will find us soon,” Merlin says, more alert than before. “They’ll be heading this way.” He looks to his new friend with concern. “Eibhlín, you should go.”

“I intend to,” Eibhlín says. “Are you certain there’s nothing I can do to repay you before I do?”

“I promise.” Then Merlin pauses. “Well, actually. There is one thing.”


	6. Epilogue

Merlin’s knees hurt. It figures, given he’s been scrubbing at Arthur’s grimy floors for almost an hour now. But now his palms are starting to go all rubbery, and his new tunic is soaked up to the elbow in cold, sudsy water, so he’s not having a grand time with it, and he’s darkly trying to remember why it is he does this in the first place.

Then Arthur swings open the door and gives Merlin a small smile as he shuts it behind him, and Merlin’s heart does a little twisty dance in his ribcage at the sight of him.

Ah, right. That’s why.

Merlin tosses the towel back in the bucket and leans back on his haunches, propping his palms on his thighs. “So? Did you speak to him?”

“Just now,” Arthur says. “You know, it’s odd—my father doesn’t have a single recollection of the night of the feast. Not even the foggiest about sacking manservants. He says he must have, ah, _partaken_ too much in the festivities.” Arthur smirks at Merlin, and Merlin can see plainly how pleased and relieved he is by the development.

“Eibhlín does good work,” Merlin says, then adds, more carefully, “And, ah, what of Prince Thaddeus? Has there been any sign of him?”

Arthur shakes his head and crosses his arms. “No one’s seen anything from him since the Fiach started.”

Merlin frowns with mock exaggeration. “Pity.”

“Travesty,” Arthur agrees, and for a moment, they just grin stupidly at each other, reveling in the small victories where they can get them.

Merlin’s smile drops as he considers something. “Er, Gawant wouldn’t actually start a war with Camelot over losing their prince, would they?”

“While the Villiers have no shortage of heirs, Gawant’s trackers suspect Thaddeus must have traveled east for a while, judging by his tracks,” Arthur says. “Apparently it’s not out of character for him to vanish on various immoral pilgrimages, so they’re not overly concerned at the moment. It’ll be a while before we have to worry about him.”

“Good,” Merlin says.

“You do know I’m still angry with you,” Arthur says, narrowing his eyes.

“Just in general, or for something in particular this time?”

“For the whole throwing-yourself-at-giant-magical-beasts bit.” Briefly, Arthur considers. “And also for forgetting the biscuit in my breakfast this morning.”

“How long are you going to go on about the biscuit for?” Merlin complains, lobbing the sodden towel at Arthur so it slaps wetly against his chest.

Arthur reacts with mock-offense when the towel hits him, reeling as though he’s been severely wounded. “You_ dare._”

“I do,” Merlin says, and snaps his fingers—with a quick flash of gold, the entire floor is clean, which clears his afternoon schedule for other activities rather nicely.

Arthur looks about dumbstruck for a second, then turns to stare at Merlin. “If you could do that all along—”

Merlin shrugs. “Have to keep up appearances. I’m used to it.”

Arthur looks momentarily troubled; he bites his lip and gives a single, pensive nod, still staring at the clean floor.

“One day it won’t be like this, you know,” he says after a moment. “Things will change, when I’m king. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Well, in the meantime,” Merlin says, clambering to his feet. Arthur goes slightly pink when Merlin crosses to him, which delights Merlin greatly.

He stops just short in front of Arthur, and grins. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not,” Arthur snaps, going redder around the cheeks and ears.

The fact that Merlin can draw physical reactions from Arthur—flustering him, mostly—is a phenomenon that’s still novel and slightly unbelievable, given—well, Arthur as a specimen—but he’ll leverage the ability while he has the chance.

Arthur’s breathing stutters for a moment as Merlin drifts closer into his space; they’re still new to this, every touch a surprise and revelation, but Merlin’s found that it’s only got more intoxicating as the days go on, not less. He didn’t think it was even possible, but he’s been discovering new things about Arthur, a softness to his core that he usually keeps staunchly armoured. Merlin’s also found himself doing the annoying humming thing that drives Gaius mad, and daydreaming constantly like a lovestruck loon. Gwen has been mercilessly teasing him about it, because he’ll often trail off mid-conversation with a dreamy, vacant look on his face—or so she claims, but Merlin doesn’t believe a word that Gwen says about it. Besides, she’s preoccupied with her own daydreaming.

But mostly, Merlin’s happy. He thinks Arthur is too, in a relaxed and sincere way that he’s never witnessed before.

“What the hell are you waiting for?” Arthur says irritably then, scowling at Merlin with genuine offence, like he can’t comprehend something not being provided for him exactly when he wants it.

And ah, there’s still that. Arthur’s still Arthur. A cranky, prattish idiot, but his cranky, prattish idiot.

“I’m providing a lesson in patience and temperance,” Merlin says solemnly, and presses a kiss to the hollow behind Arthur’s ear. Arthur releases a shuddery breath and rests his cheek against Merlin’s, their pulses thudding together.

“Well, get on with it then,” Arthur says, trying for peevish, but his voice is breathless, anticipating.

And so Merlin does, because he can. And because this is how it ought to be.


End file.
